Saturday, February 29, 2020
Friday, February 28, 2020
Thursday, February 27, 2020
NIETZSCHE IN TEN SENTENCES
1.
Nietzsche adored his father, who died when Friedrich
was only five, compelling him to later write, “Black clouds billowed up, the
lightning flashed and damaging thunderbolts fell from the heavens.”
2.
Maybe, for Nietzsche, that is when God died; or maybe
it was six months later when he looked out his bedroom window to see a white
spirit rise from his father’s grave and enter the nearby church, organ music
playing, then returning to the grave with something beneath its arm; for when
Nietzsche awakened from this dream, his brother Little Joseph, not quite two
years old, suffered a stroke and died.
3.
It was in Leipzig in 1866, while at university, that
Nietzsche contracted syphilis after visiting a brothel.
4.
Perhaps Nietzsche felt stronger for it, but anxiety,
migraine headaches, nausea and poor eyesight compelled poor Fritz, at age 35, to relinquish his chair as a classics professor at the University
of Basle and seek a quieter, calmer place for the full-time writing of
experimental philosophy.
5.
Thus Nietzsche found Sils Maria, where walking–and the
electromagnetic power of the Engadine valley–gave him solace and inspiration,
supplemented by hashish oil, which contributed to his very deep thinking.
6.
On June 3rd, 1889, while standing on the
Piazza Carlo Alberto in Turin, Nietzsche suffered a nervous breakdown when he
saw a man beating a horse; sobbing, he rushed to embrace and comfort the horse,
placing both arms around the nag’s neck.
7.
Nietzsche was led back to his room nearby, and when he
awakened from a nap, Fritz believed he had succeeded God (whom he’d already
declared dead) as ruler of all mankind–suggesting also that he could control
the weather.
8.
Nietzsche’s doctor, a close friend, was summoned and,
upon arrival, arranged for Fritz to be smuggled out of Italy–to Basle,
Switzerland– for fear the Italians would forcibly confine him.
9.
Throughout the journey by train, Nietzsche sang,
danced, shouted and asked that women be brought to him; Swiss doctors soon
declared him insane.
10.
The mediocrity
of man, along with syphilis microbes mulching his brain, and hashish oil and
chloral hydrate (which Nietzsche took for sleep), had driven the philosopher
mad; and, faithless, since God for him had long since died, Nietzsche spent the
last ten years of his life casually strolling a lunatic asylum before
transcending from the chaos of his life into a dancing star.
Wednesday, February 26, 2020
FLIP COIN # 5
One ounce of silver from Tuvalu.
For when it's time to hit the Yellow Brick Road.
Heads: Head for home.
Tails: Go to Kansas.
NIETZSCHE'S MUSTACHE 11
It is pouring rain when I awaken on
our final morning in Sils Maria.
I can hear it tapping against my
window, blowing in from the lake.
Nietzsche?
I peer through curtains for a glimpse of this moody morning: low cloud cuddling high mountains: dark, gloomy, wet.
Nietzsche?
I peer through curtains for a glimpse of this moody morning: low cloud cuddling high mountains: dark, gloomy, wet.
Few
know that Nietzsche was a composer before he became a philosopher.
I discovered his complete works on two CDs at Nietzsche Haus.
I discovered his complete works on two CDs at Nietzsche Haus.
As
we roll out of Sils Maria, we listen quietly to Nietzsche’s compositions for
piano and choir.
The rain pounding our windshield feels like Friedrich’s teardrops, a poignant accompaniment to the sad strains of his sad composition, Miserere.
Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy loving
kindness.
Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity and cleanse me
from my sin
Against thee only have I sinned and done evil in thy
sight
So that thou may be justified when thou speaketh
And be clear when one thou judgeth
We
are in Italy, nearing Lake Como, when I look up to the clouds and see
Nietzsche’s face. One can read an awful
lot into clouds, but this portrait is striking.
“Look up there,” I say to Van Stein, pointing.
The
artist lurches forward from behind, follows my finger. “Ohmigod!”
Mazey
leans across for her own peek. “But
that’s… that’s him!”
Yes, Ms. Neuro-psychologist. Wouldn’t it make a lovely inkblot?
“It
looks just like his death mask,” says Van Stein in awe, reaching for his
sketchpad to document our collective ideas of reference.
“Thank
you,” I say. “I thought I was
hallucinating.”
We
had answered Nietzsche’s summons, called his bluff, but it was no bluff, and
now he is looking down upon us, the newest recruit to our gang of mad geniuses
disguised as orbs.
It
is mid-afternoon when we roll into Nice-Cote d’Azur Airport and bid farewell to
JL and Mazey. (We’d begun this road trip
as Mazey’s patients, finished it with she as our
patient.)
Van Stein and I are weary, but
punch-drunk from having accomplished our esoteric mission.
We
manage a seat between us in the sardine-packed EasyJet cabin. When a bitchy flight attendant conducts her final
check, she sneers: “I knew the Americans
would get the only spare seat.”
The
artist and I exchange puzzled glances: A
compliment or an insult?
Neither. We needed a seat for Nietzsche!
This propels us into a manic dialog over Bells Scotch whiskey, alarming fellow passengers as many as three rows
away.
The subject is Nietzsche’s walrus
mustache.
“You
know, when Nietzsche speaks, you can’t hear him. The sound is completely
muffled. And it’s not like a lip-reader
can help.”
“As
for kissing, out of the question. No
woman could handle that without choking to death.”
“It’s
a defense mechanism. Having experienced
the joys of syphilis, which he contracted as a young man, and which ate through
his brain like an apple, turning it to mush, driving him to madness and
ultimately killing him, Nietzsche determined the best defense against mankind,
more specifically, womankind, is an impenetrable mustache, the biggest ever
grown.”
“What
about eating? He can't eat soup or
drink coffee. Spaghetti is out of the
question. Maybe a frankfurter.”
“You’re
telling me his mustache is a Bratwurst
Engulfer!”
“Is he hiding
bad teeth?”
“Did
he even have a dentist?”
“How
many nits are living in that thing?”
“One
million, thirty-nine thousand and sixteen!”
Somebody
notifies the pilot. Our flight attendant
arrives to check us out. “Landing
cards?”
“Yes, please.”
She
hands us three.
I look at Van
Stein. “Three?” I mouth.
“She
can feel his presence,” he whispers.
I
fill out a landing card for dear Friedrich, using the Bedlam Bar address.
Immigration
barely notices our antique German philosopher as we breeze through Border Control into the UK, and soon we
spill into a balmy Marylebone evening, met by Reek Pisserin and two pairs of
Iranian orbs in Hardy’s, grilled halibut, too much pinot noir.
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